


The Pinch Hitter

by OhAine



Series: Simple Chemistry [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A tiny bit of fluff, AU, Canon divergence after S3:E1, F/M, Humor, Light Angst, Mild Profanity, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 08:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11986470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine
Summary: You are cordially invited to the wedding of Dr Molly Hooper & Mr Tom Edwards.Dress Code: Cocktail attire. Boxing Gloves optional.





	The Pinch Hitter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [escailyy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/escailyy/gifts).



> Based on escailyy's prompt: The wedding that's definitely not happening.
> 
> Unbeta'd because of time constraints, please forgive mistakes.
> 
> Things you should know before reading:  
> 1\. A 'pony' is slang for £25  
> 2\. Molly & Sherlock are dancing to 'It had to be you'  
> 3\. John Steed is a suit wearing spy who carries an umbrella in The Avengers TV show.  
> 4\. 'Pear shaped' is slang for things going badly wrong  
> 5\. I own nothing but the typos

oOo

It’s bad enough that guests can’t be bothered to bring actual wedding presents to an actual wedding, and have stooped so low as to wrap empty boxes (Mary’s been to the Ballroom where Molly and Tom’s reception is due to be held and shook every last one of them – Stamford, Dimmock, Donovan and Anderson have all been identified as culprits that she’ll have to keep an eye on when she and John take their skip up the aisle next month. Well, _okay_ , Dimmock’s box _did_ have a top of the range Nespresso machine in it. Once. But Mary has benevolently saved all involved the trouble of returning it after the soon to be wedding debacle by putting it into the boot of her car).

Equally offensive is that Mr Chatterjee has been not so discretely peddling popcorn and auctioning off seats in the church with a better view of the altar as though he’s running the local IMAX. And Mary’s pretty damn sure that Hudders is taking a cut of that action, not least of all because the old girl is wearing a change maker on her bloody belt (though, knowing her fiancé’s former landlady as she does, that holstered bulge and glint of something metallic could well be a Sig...).

There is zero class to Kitty Reilly handing out business cards in the vestibule.

There is even less class in most of the Bride’s side of the church taking one.

It’s frightfully gauche that while sitting in a pew at her son’s wedding, the Groom’s mother is browsing match.com’s most eligible single ladies, hoping to find him a nice girl to take on the honeymoon. And that the best man is doing something similar. Except on Grindr.

But the pinnacle of it all, the very definition of bad taste, is Lestrade running a pool on the time Sherlock Holmes will finally manage to pull his head out of his backside and throw himself at the feet of that little ball of barely disguised awesomeness known to her friends and family (and the occasional master criminal cum Glee watching ex-boyfriend) as Molly Hooper.

Frustrating as hell too, because he won’t let the soon to be Mrs Watson buy in.

Greg tells her with a casual shrug of one shoulder, “You’ve too much of an inside track on this shindig. Sorry, can’t do it Mare.”

“Inside track? Pfft,” Mary, draws her chin in to her chest and waves a hand dismissively. “No more than anyone else.”

“Oh come off it! You’re Molly’s bezzie mate. Your fiancé’s walking the bride down the aisle, and you’re one of two chief baby sitters to the knob-head who’s expected to kick down the church doors and stop this wedding. Just can’t, darlin’. Wouldn’t be fair. Besides, the slot you want is gone.” He leans in to whisper in her ear, all lopsided dimples and cheeky grin, pointing to Mycroft Holmes, “John Steed over there’s already taken 2:04—”

Mary searches the heavens for patience. “Oh for fu—”

“—but if you keep it to yourself, I can do ya 2:06. No one’s bet past the 5 minute mark yet.”

Greg’s right, of course. She does have an advantage over the rest of them, not least of all because she thinks the reason why the bride-to-be had spent the night before sobbing in the loo while Sherlock left voicemail after voicemail until finally Molly had shut her phone off altogether, had something to do with the detective and his pathologist sharing a cosy dance lesson on the eve of her wedding. Still, Mary’s not about to skew the odds on this whole thing going pear shaped by giving up that particular piece of information. Instead, she weighs it up, puts it together like a mathematical equation where the time of matrimonius interruptus is equal to the sum of Sherlock’s sexual frustration multiplied by the square root of Molly’s attraction to him, divided by the probability of Tom fancying his chances against the detective and punching his lights out. Factoring in for traffic she calculates, “2:07.”

Lestrade pulls out his evidence book and adds her to the not insubstantial list of punters. “I’ll put you down for a pony, ‘long as you keep schtum.”

“Oh, Detective Inspector,” Mary laughs, “you have no idea how good I am at keeping secrets.”

oOo

Doctor’s receptionists know everything. They really do. Which is why when Mary sees Molly’s breath catch, and the corner of her lip curl down by a millimetre or two, she asks, “Is something wrong?”

“I think this is a mistake,” the bride says, looking noticeably paler than she had been just a few moments earlier.

They are standing at the doors of a beautiful country church, waiting for the wedding march to begin, when Mary glances at her watch: two minutes to kick off. So close. _So close._ “Molly love,” the maid of (dis)honour says, “if you could just hold on to that thought for 9 more minutes—”

Molly's eyes narrow and she shoots her friend a glare that could cut titanium in two. “I meant,” she says through gritted teeth, “the corset. It’s already getting hard to breathe in it.”

“Oh,” is Mary’s clever response, which under the circumstances is only slightly less rude than snorting out a laugh at the extent of Molly’s self-delusion.

John offers his arm to the bride and gives his dearest one a none too fond slow shake of his head just as the doors open and the strains of Wagner, played on an ancient organ, greet them. Hissing under his breath to Miss Morstan, behind the Bride’s back, “Shame on you for betting against your friends.”

“Oh John,” she says, with a weary eyed look of pity, “you’re a fool. Can’t you see I’m betting _on_ them.”

oOo

For such a tiny little thing, the bridesmaid could fairly pack a punch.

 _They really don’t prepare you well enough in the seminary for this kind of shit,_ is the Reverend Doyle’s assessment of the Hooper/Edwards wedding as the other one – Meena, he thinks – shoves a tampon up his (almost certainly) broken nose in an attempt to stem the bloody tide.

In retrospect, there had been a few clues that should have told him things were not going to go as planned today, and that the blessed event would most likely devolve into a circus.

First of those being that he’d had to contend with the Father of the Bride (well, not actually the father), a Doctor Watson, tackling him to the ground all the while ranting something about it not even being a very good disguise as he pulled on the vicar’s nose and hair.

 _‘Jesus, Sherlock,’_ his short-arsed assailant had bit out at him as he sat on his chest pinning the stunned cleric to the floor, _‘If you can’t fucking behave like a grown up and tell the girl how you feel, you’ve no right to piss on her parade. Could you just let her be happy? For once in your miserable life could you stop yourself from being a selfish prick?’_

That little scuffle had only been a warm up for the main event (there’s a boxing pun or metaphor or whatever in there somewhere but he’s in too much pain to look for it now).

The service had started off reasonably enough. And except for the fact that the bride looked like she was walking toward the gallows and not the altar, everything was pretty much as it should be.

“We are gathered here today,” Reverend Doyle began when the condemned – eh – the bride reached the top of the church. It was then that a voice boomed from the doorway of the chapel—

“Can we just skip to the part where you ask if anyone objects? There really isn’t much point in reciting all of that religious twaddle only to have the whole thing called off half way through.”

Doyle didn’t answer. He was too busy looking at the white tulle covered thermonuclear device whose launch sequence had just been activated, and her Groom whose jaw had dropped rather unattractively blinking in stunned silence. But there was a collective (fake) scandalised gasp rippling through the pews, and a rustle of paper that sounded suspiciously like money changing hands. To the Bride’s left, he saw the blonde one – Mary – punch the air, hissing, “Yissss, bang on time!”

Molly, to her credit, kept her cool. She’d been expecting this since the day before and that damn dance lesson.

It had been Mary Morstan’s idea, _of course._ And, in hindsight, obviously a bad one. No, wait, scratch that. A _terrible_ one.

Molly had known it the minute he’d taken her hand in his, and led her to the centre of 221B’s living room floor, all of the furniture pushed to one side, curtains closed, none of the lights turned on – everything caught in a peculiar stillness. The tenderness of the casual, almost insignificant gesture had made butterflies dance in her belly, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end when he’d rubbed his thumb over her wrist. For a moment she’d said nothing and just let herself feel it, but then she’d realised that he was watching her. Waiting. His brows knitted together and a serious, verging on sad expression is his sea-green eyes that she’d never seen before.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Sherlock had asked softly, his hand – warm – slowly sliding down her back, coming to rest in the hollow: the intimacy of their position causing her to tense.

Molly had nodded because she knew she should, even if she wasn’t sure what she was saying yes to.

His chest had deflated just then, and she’d felt the ghost of a sigh brush her cheek. “Put your arms around me and look into my eyes. Be sure to follow my lead.”

At that she’d smiled: for when had she ever done anything else?

She’d just assumed he’d choose a waltz, but he hadn’t. Instead there was Tony Bennett’s twinkling voice and a piano, then wonderfully romantic lyrics asking why would she – if her dreams were coming true – feel sad? Reminding her that for each of us there is always that one special person…

“Do you feel it?” His lips we’re hot on the shell of her ear, his voice thick, velvety.

Molly forced herself to be steady, but she’d trembled just a little all the same. “I do.”

“Good,” he’d rumbled, pulling her close, the weight of him heavy against her. Joined now, hip to shoulder, her temple resting on his cheek, they’d gently swayed in time with the music. Sherlock’s hand flexed and tightened in the silky fabric of her blouse. “Relax. Just let it happen.”

It was turning into another one of those strange conversations that they sometimes had. The way he looked at her, with longing, maybe even sadness, and the things he said, words that could mean everything or nothing at all. There were times when she’d let herself go, believing that the electricity that sparked and fizzed between them, _the closeness,_ wasn’t all in her imagination. Tacitly, she was complicit in her own deception.

Molly was lost in those thoughts when she felt his lips brush over her hair. “I don’t think I ever truly believed that you would marry him.”

And, God help her, she just couldn’t take it anymore. Molly’s hand – the one that had been on his shoulder – slid up his neck and had tangled in his hair.

Curling their still joined hands tightly into his chest, he’d asked in little more than a breathy whisper, “Molly…?”

But she wasn’t listening.

Even now recalling it, she can still feel the brush of his lashes on her skin as his eyelids fluttered closed when she pressed her mouth to his. Present too is the memory of his diaphragm contracting to hold his breath, a sharp, surprised gasp as he did so, and the texture of his barely parted lips, soft and warm on hers.

She had kissed him.

But he hadn’t kissed her back.

Instead, after a few moments he had jerked away, a look of shock mingled with terror on his face, mouth gaping like a fish out of water, his shaking fingertips pressed to the place on his lips where hers had been.

Molly – feeling like she’d been doused in cold water – had run past him down the stairs and kept running all the way from Baker Street to her little house in Islington.

On the eve of her own God damn wedding she’d managed to make a complete fool of herself with a man who could never love her, and in the process destroy their friendship – the one she’d fought so bloody hard for all these years.

It occurs to her as she stands at the altar, with every eye in the church ping-ponging between her and Sherlock, that maybe – _just maybe_ – she should have answered her damn phone, taken her lumps and gotten this humiliating conversation over with last night.

It may be the understatement of the century, but Molly elects to say it anyway, “Now’s not really a good time, Sherlock.”

Coat billowing behind him, Sherlock steps into the aisle and makes his way to where she stands. Towering over her to the exclusion of all around them, he fixes her in his crosshairs. “You’d really rather I waited until after you’re married before saying what needs to be said?”

Molly, pale, looks exactly like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. A big one.

“Fine,” says Sherlock closing in on her. “If you won’t talk about it, I will. Why did you kiss me?”

“You did _what_?” Tom finally chimes in.

Sherlock directs every part of his laser like focus on him, “You’re not really one to talk, are you Tim?” He knows he’s made a direct hit when the groom and his best man exchange an awkward look: Sherlock’s conceited grin is toothy and shark-like.

This time the chorus of gasps from the congregation is genuine in its surprise.

Not that Molly even notices, she’s so intently focused on Sherlock. “I’d have thought the more pertinent question is why do you even care when you didn’t kiss me back?”

Again, there’s a wave of loud whispers and generally amused shock from behind the sea of bright pink gardenias that are strewn the length of the church. “Oh for—” The detective spins on his heels, lips pursed and frowning deeply, he heaves out a dramatic sigh, “Could you all please stop that, it’s becoming tedious.”

“I’ll tell you why.” In a fit of pique, Molly throws her bouquet to the ground— rose petals flying everywhere like confetti — and grabs Sherlock by the elbow turning him around to face her once again, “It’s because despite the fact that you constantly act like a territorial prick every time a half decent man gets within ten yards of me, frightening him off, that— that— you are such a jealous sod that you rip me to shreds when you think I might have the audacity to buy a gift for someone who isn’t you, a—and you take me on fake dates to solve crimes and have chips but won’t tell me what it’s all about,” she’s almost panting now, “despite the way you look at me, and use that bloody little-boy-lost voice when you tell me that you hope I’ll be happy— despite all of that, the extent of your actual interest in me is limited to what body parts I can pinch for your experiments and whether I’m free to fill in for John so that you still have someone to follow you around telling you how bloody brilliant you are.” Shaking with anger now, Molly gets to the crux of it. “I am not some consolation prize to be claimed because when you came back to London you found that everyone had moved on without you. You don’t get to bait me and string me along because you’re lonely.”

Sherlock does that fish out of water thing again with his mouth, eyes wide. “That’s what you think?!”

“Yes!”

“I don’t want you because I’m lonely, you little moron.” He shouts, full to breaking point with impotent frustration and clawing at his own hair. "I'm lonely because I want you!"

Somehow Molly manages to look simultaneously affronted and deliriously happy.

“I didn’t kiss you back because I was shocked, alright?! Last I’d heard you and Graham Norton over there,” he gestures vaguely at Tim, uh sorry, Tom, “were planning to spend the rest of your lives together and _having quite a lot of sex._ So when you kissed me, you took me by surprise. Which you’d know if you’d bothered to answer your bloody phone last night. But I came here today to give you a chance to— to tell you that I— that I—”

He loves her. It’s true, she knows it’s true. She can tell just from the look in his eyes. He’s struggling with the words but not the feelings. Still. Molly squares herself, defiantly, “You have to say it, Sherlock. Or I won’t believe it.”

They stare at each other dumbly, neither blinking, for what feels like an eternity.

“Fine. I— I love you,” his shoulders sag as he lets out a sigh he’s been holding in for five long years. “I love you, Molly Hooper.”

And though she’s begun to cry big, fat, stupid tears of joy, she still manages to whisper the words, “I love you too,” back to him.

Sherlock swallows hard around the lump in his throat, smiles crookedly, “May I— May I kiss the Bride?”

Before her he stands, all dishevelled curls, cheeks pink and eyes bright, the most dazzling sight she has ever seen, and Molly grips his face in both her hands. This time it’s Sherlock who crashes their mouths together, artless and demanding, shoving his hands into her hair, shaking loose the flowers she wears in it. When it ends she pulls back, and holy hell, he’s blushing all the way down to his collar and his eyes are honest to God sparkling.

“Molly,” he says, awed, sweeping her in to his arms.

More gasps from the congregation, accompanied by a loud jumble of applause and wolf-whistles (from the Bride’s guests) and a chorus of ‘ _well I never_ ’ (from the Groom’s).

At that precise moment, chaos erupts. Tim, eh _Tom_ , **_Tom_** , makes a swing at Sherlock. Who ducks. Meaning that the Groom’s fist catches John Watson who, as per, has sidled up beside his best mate in the hopes of things turning rowdy. Which they do. Never one to leave her darling fiancé undefended it’s Hurricane Mary Morstan who swings the next. Tom – the intended recipient of her ire – also has the presence of mind to duck. Unfortunately for Reverend Doyle, he does not.

Which is how minutes later he finds himself sitting on the altar steps, half a Tampax hanging from each nostril, watching as the silver-haired copper – _Greg_ – who’d broken up the melee clears the church of almost everyone but the bridal party.

“How do you two feel about eloping?” Is Greg’s question when he finally strong arms the last of the Groom’s family through the stone arch at the bottom of the aisle, locking the doors behind them. “Only – _fun’n’all as this was_ – I really don’t think there’s a single church in all of England who’ll ‘ave you after this gets out.”

Molly, a little embarrassed at the suggestion, says, “Well— That’s not something—” overlapping Sherlock’s sincere and happy, “I don’t really mind where we—”

“You mean that you—?” They ask each other at the same time.

“You don’t want to—?”

“I didn’t think that you—”

Mycroft rolls his eyes so hard that he looks like he’s having a seizure. “Before this devolves into a Monty Python skit, there is another option,” he says, slipping the gold band from the ring finger of his right hand and pressing it to Sherlock’s open palm. “You could just get it over with. Do it now.”

Sherlock stares at his Grandfather’s wedding ring, then at his brother. “Isn’t there one of those law things? Banns? Licences? That kind of plebeian nonsense?”

“Leave that to me – My gift to you and Miss Hooper.”

The Detective’s nose crinkles, “You really would?”

“If it means we could do this without Mummy and Daddy inviting the rest of the,” here he shudders, “ _family_ , then yes.”

Sherlock blinks and looks at Molly, his eyes turning very blue. The smile he gives her is heartbreakingly hopeful. “It’d be a shame to waste that dress, you do look very pretty in it.”

She tries to suppress a smile, but finds she can’t. “Reverend Doyle,” she asks the bloodied and bruised vicar, “Would you—? I mean if you’d agree, can I—”

“Marry him? Kill him?” Doyle offers, rolling his eyes and sighing in resignation. “Oh, do whatever you want with him.”

oOo

And so it came to pass, on a beautiful spring day, in a darling country church that Molly Hooper married the man of her dreams, and Sherlock Holmes married the woman of his.

Never knowingly under clichéd, Mr & Mrs Holmes intended to live happily ever after. And no one who knew them would ever bet against that being exactly what they were.


End file.
